


tremble in the doorway

by reclamation



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 20:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reclamation/pseuds/reclamation
Summary: The crew is working on a starbase while recovering from an away mission and everyone is miserable. McCoy has a list of complaints of his own, not the least of which is Jim.





	tremble in the doorway

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posting some old deleted works. Originally published for the 2013 [McCoy and Kirk Spring Fling Challenge](http://mccoy-and-kirk.livejournal.com).

“I could take care of this myself,” McCoy says in a grumble.

To her credit, Chapel only calmly continues to run the regenerator carefully down his forearm. She says, commanding, “Sit still.”

McCoy harrumphs a little but settles back onto the biobed.

“Even if I was willing to ignore the professional unconscionability of your suggestion,” she answers with her lips still thinned in concentration and eyebrows drawn together, “you’re trying to tell me that you’d be completely comfortable running an osteo-regenerator with your non-dominant hand to treat your own crushed radius and ulna? Not to mention the surrounding damage to your nerves and muscle tissue. As it is you’re lucky that you’re going to get full use of the hand back, doctor.”

There’s only the slightest hint of an emphasis on ‘doctor,’ and McCoy’s scowl deepens.

She’s right and he knows it.

His left hand is good—fine motor control is something he practices because it’s a helpful quality in a surgeon—but it’ll never match his right. So, no, he couldn't risk self-treatment. Two weeks of daily regeneration is a pain in his ass, but it’s really nothing in the greater scheme of things. Not when he would have been taken home in a body bag if not for Jim.

Still, at this point the daily complaining is expected: “Nine more days to go.”

“Leonard,” Chapel laughs, “ _Believe me_  when I say that I’m counting down the time as eagerly as you are.”

It’s only a few minutes before the osteo-regenerator is quietly set aside and the much hated cast—an unapologetically archaic piece of medical equipment—brought out again. There’s nothing for it, though, because his arm needs the extra support of the rigid casing until he's finally pronounced fit for duty again. McCoy loathes every minute he has to wear the thing.

“This might hurt,” Chapel warns, the same way she has the past five days.

He grits his teeth as they work together to wrangle his mostly useless arm into the contraption. Unlike casts of centuries ago, it's not a plaster semi-permanent concoction. Instead, it’s lightweight and designed for easy, daily removal. He only needs to bear through three snaps of the large plastic buckles reverberating over the injury before it’s locked into place.

And whatever genius decided buckles were a good idea, McCoy thinks as the first clicks shut and slams through his nerves, needs a kinder soul than him to point out that a little  _common sense_ might have gone a long way in the design.

“So,” Chapel asks, clearly trying to get his mind off the procedure, “How are you and the captain?”

“Not that it’s anyone’s business,” McCoy says around clenched teeth. “It’s new, is what.”

Chapel positively grins. “I was only asking if he was still avoiding you, but,” she pauses, slyly, “if you really want to talk about your personal relationship we can do that, too.”

“You think you’re funny,” he responds weakly in the wake of the fresh hammer of pain brought down along with the second clasp.

“I do, actually,” Chapel says. “Don’t worry—we all saw it coming ages ago.”

How anyone could have ‘saw it coming’ is beyond McCoy since  _he_  didn’t have a clue until he had Jim folded over his own bed about three weeks ago. The entire thing is still an unpredictable mess with starts and stops; McCoy doesn’t know where he stands half the time until Jim invites himself onto McCoy’s lap or goes down to his knees after a companionable meal in Jim’s quarters or—

Well, McCoy hasn’t figured out the rhythm or reason of it yet, if there is one.

“All done,” Chapel says as she clicks the final buckle into place, looking about as wrung out as McCoy feels. “You know, we wouldn’t have to use this awful thing if you let this heal a bit naturally rather than daily regens.”

“Yeah, I know, Chris,” he tries to offer her a smile, even if it’s strained around the ebbs of residual pain, before levering himself slowly up and then, equally slowly, towards the door.

He reaches the doorway by the time his guilt catches up to him:

“I—”

The apology is cut off before it can begin by a crewman, bare-chested with his red tunic and undershirt rucked up into a circle around his neck, jogging into sickbay.

And directly into McCoy’s broken arm.

An awful sort of sandpaper grind registers for one lurching heartbeat. Then the sharp crack of hurt shoots through the limb and blinds his senses to anything else except the overwhelming agony. McCoy stands perfectly still as he focuses on his breathing to keep the black edge threatening his vision at bay.

The ensign’s babbling slowly fades in as the pain recedes, “Doctor McCoy, I am so sorry. I didn’t see you...”

As soon as he’s sure that he won’t pass out, McCoy rounds on him:

“Then you might consider watching where you’re going, ensign. And put your goddamn shirt on; this is the Federation flagship, not the beach.”

A dark spark of gratification flares through him when the ensign drops his halting apologetic movements and snaps to attention so hard he hits the wall and bounces forward from the impact—all while trying to simultaneously give a hasty salute and pull his shirt awkwardly back down.

“Yes, sir!”

It doesn’t stop McCoy’s arm from hurting like hell, but it’s something at least.

Chapel hovers at the edge of the exchange, either to step in or dispense aid, but McCoy motions her back with a hand. He asks, “Now what did you need?”

The ensign stammers a bit, still standing at attention.

“For God’s sake, at ease and spit it out already.”

“Uh, sir,” he begins again, “It’s really hot down on the starbase. Like, really hot. I had to sit down for a bit earlier, ‘cause I was feeling a little lightheaded. And then I was fine, but I was ordered to come up here and get checked out anyway.”

McCoy rolls his eyes but holds back the rant sitting on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he guides the ensign to the biobed he vacated.

“Easy enough to fix. Nurse Chapel will take care of you.” McCoy pauses, “My guess is everyone else down there is being as boneheaded as you about keeping cool and hydrated?”

It’s not really a question that needs an answer, so he doesn’t bother waiting for one. McCoy grabs a hypo—designed to quickly hydrate and temporarily remedy related symptoms—and shoves it awkwardly with only one hand into a medkit. His next stop is to grab a pallet of water from the supplies, which he has to carefully tip onto his shoulder and anchor in place with his left hand in order to have any hope of carrying it successfully. Chapel is watching him, sympathy bright in her eyes and grating McCoy’s nerves, but she’s learned better than to offer assistance.

He gives her a nod, trying to convey both apology and appreciation, then leaves in search of Jim.

 

 

 

Apparently, professionalism gets kicked right out the window after a few days of working in oppressive, unavoidable thirty-eight degree Celsius heat. A good half of the crew is out of uniform in some manner. Some, like the ensign that decided to ram into him, are barely wearing their shirts at all while others have opted to discard their top tunic layer and keep the black undershirt.

The rampant unprofessionalism isn’t entirely unwarranted. The hangar is worse than ‘hot.’

It’s a damn sauna.

Not only is it hot as blazes, but the air is rank with the humidity of so many bodies pressed into the metal structure. McCoy is only on the deck a minute when the uncomfortable slide of sweat starts under his cast and shirt.

Finding Jim amidst the crowd of overheated crew and cargo is easier than expected. All McCoy has to do is follow the progressively louder—and nearly incomprehensible—mix of Standard and engineering gibberish.

Jim and Scott are hunched over a PADD. Both are red-faced and Jim has a triangle of sweat soaked through his uniform between his shoulder blades. The base of his hair along the collar, his temples, and forehead curls against the skin, damp and tousled.

McCoy’s eyes linger perhaps a beat too long on this detail before clearing his throat.

There’s a lot he should say, most of it relevant to Enterprise business, but what comes out of his mouth is, “Dammit, Jim. Do I have to put out a ship-wide announcement? You and Scotty have probably been at this for hours and there’s not a drop of water in sight. Do you  _want_  to be the first recorded case of a captain keeling over on account of heat stroke while safely docked?”

“Hey, Bones,” Jim blithely ignores McCoy’s comment. He swipes at his brow with his uniform sleeve before he gestures to the pallet of water perched on McCoy’s shoulder, “Let me give you a hand with that.”

“Don’t you ‘hey, Bones’ me,” McCoy says, trying to get across how unimpressed he is in the few words. Jim’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker as he easily sweeps the pallet away and sets it on the table next to the PADD. With an affectionate grin, Jim looks for all the world like he hasn’t been avoiding McCoy since the away mission.

Actually, McCoy is pretty sure that Jim hasn't been avoiding him, exactly. Though it had crossed his mind. It’s just that Jim has been acting  _weird as hell_.

Before, he was ordinary Jim. Then three weeks ago, he was Jim who sometimes gave blow jobs. Then a week ago—after that damn mission—some body snatcher took his place, leaving McCoy a Jim that's a knot of mixed signals. One minute he’s gracious as all get out only to disappear like a ghost the next.

Ordinarily, McCoy could have the mystery of Jim’s odd behavior nailed down in the space of two fingers of bourbon. But there’s too many variables in flux.

“Come down to enjoy a bit of the weather?” Jim asks.

McCoy grimaces in response. He says, “Starbase couldn’t manage to get this place a few degrees below hellfire?”

“No system set up for it in the hangar here, apparently,” Jim says, as if that’s an explanation.

“So talk some sense into them.”

“It’s not for lack of trying on our part,” Scotty says, petulant.

“Tell him the story, Scotty,” Jim says.

“Well, I offered to fabricate up a system from spare parts—”

“Most of which were never designed for the purpose,” Jim interjects.

“Details,” Scott scoffs, “It’s a simple matter to cannibalize a bit here and there from a spare warp drive system and repurpose them into a functional environmental control mechanism—but  _no_ , no one wanted to hear of it—”

McCoy can’t help but interrupt this time, “You wanted to take the same thing that propels a massive spaceship,” the idea alone is making his knees feel a bit shaky, “and use it to make the temperature bearable?”

“Got it in one,” Scott sighs a heavy, suffering sigh. “But the powers that be vetoed the idea without even looking at the schematics. Spent all that time drawing them up, too.”

Jim’s eyes glitter with amusement at McCoy, like there’s an inside joke he should be privy to. Jim says, “Starbase brass, am I right, Bones?”

If Chapel hadn’t independently verified the fact that Jim’s been a squirrelly bastard lately, McCoy would almost think, based solely upon Jim’s grin, that he was imagining the whole thing.

At least dehydration is an easier battle to fight than trying to figure out the inner workings of James T. Kirk’s mind. McCoy digs in the medkit for the hypo, feeling pretty proud that he’s quick enough with his left hand that he’s already injected the contents into Jim’s vulnerable neck before Jim can raise a defense. Jim bats his hand away—though more gently than usual—in reflex.

“Was that really necessary,” Jim says more than asks, pressing at the injection site with timid fingers.

“Yes. Now stop messing with that.” McCoy adds, with no little amount of satisfaction, “And some water for good measure, Jim. Drink the whole thing.”

Jim eyes roll heavenward but he complies without complaint, chugging at a water with great gulping swallows that send his Adam’s apple rocking. The entire show is only vaguely sexual with the slightest raise of one eyebrow before Jim tosses the empty bottle at McCoy. “Good enough, doctor?”

“It’ll have to do,” McCoy answers, fumbling the damn bottle against his chest. He flings it right back with a flick of his wrist, catching Jim in the stomach.

“I knew sending Ensign Rhodes up to you was asking for trouble,” Jim says, both rueful and fond.

“Uh,” Scott says, looking like he’s trying to work out how to get Jim’s attention back while remaining off McCoy’s radar at the same time.

“Only had the one hypo, Scotty,” McCoy says.

Scott brightens. He says, “Ah, what a shame.”

“Well,” McCoy says dryly, “You could always come to sickbay. I could fix you right up.”

Scott falters and Jim doesn’t even try to hide his laughter. Jim claps Bones on the back, again gently, and says, “No can do, Bones. You can’t take my chief engineer. We’ll never get this figured out without him.”

Immediately, Jim’s gaze flicks past McCoy’s shoulder and his grin widens: “Spock!”

Spock insinuates himself into the circle, nodding a bland greeting, “Captain.”

Compared to everyone else, Spock looks unruffled without so much as a bead of sweat or misplaced hair. Meanwhile, McCoy’s arm is starting to itch like a bastard and the plastic edges of the cast are scraping against his damp skin.

“What’s up, Spock?”

McCoy preemptively readies himself to roll his eyes at Spock’s predictable response. It's sure to be something along the lines of ‘your human turns of phrase are illogical’ or whatever, but Spock disappoints.

“Starbase supply staff have notified me that they are unable to aid us further in separating the cargo,” Spock answers, dangerously close to sounding annoyed. McCoy could be hearing things, though.

Jim grimaces and says, “Of course. They got all this mixed up and don’t want to spend the time sorting it out. Go figure.”

“So it seems, Captain.”

Spock may be taking this in stride, but McCoy’s angry enough for them both. “That’s ridiculous. Can’t we at least beam it all up to Enterprise and go through it all somewhere where it isn’t sweltering?”

“It’s just a little heat, Bones!” Jim says.

McCoy plucks at the sweat-soaked front of Jim’s tunic, raises an eyebrow, and doesn’t say a thing. Jim’s smile is sheepish.

Meanwhile Spock is driving forward, efficient as ever, answering McCoy’s question, “That would be inadvisable, considering that there is a merchant vessel claiming approximately forty-two point six percent of these supplies who are unwilling to allow their shipment to be taken aboard another vessel, even if only temporarily.”

“You’re saying that they don’t trust us to give them what’s theirs,” McCoy says, snarling because his blood boils at the thought.

“Bones, it’s okay. We’ve only got another day or day and a half down here,” Jim intervenes. “Then we’re good to go. In the meantime, I’m turning a blind eye to any uniform deficiencies—and now we’ve got a water delivery to boot.”

McCoy says, “As CMO, Jim, I’d have to say that it’s too damn hot to be healthy for at least a dozen crewmembers from worlds that don’t even reach twenty-six degrees, much less  _over thirty_ , and that isn’t even mentioning the risk for heat-related injury and illness to the average humanoid, so—in my oh so humble opinion—the other vessel can deal with it unless they want to get down here and sweat with us.”

“But Doctor,” Spock answers, “You are not currently acting as chief medical officer. I believe you are still under mandatory medical orders for rest and recovery. In fact, one might even go so far as to question your presence on deck.”

Spock pauses and, for a moment, McCoy is so livid that he can’t remember how to make words work, much less give Spock the verbal reaming he so deserves.

“You also have yet to submit your report regarding the incidents arising from our last planetary contact.”

“Bones—” Jim begins.

“Thanks for the reminder, Commander,” Bones interrupts, flatly. “I almost forgot.”

Then he turns on his heel and walks away, because he can be useless just as easily on Enterprise.

 

 

 

Jim catches up to him before he makes it very far. McCoy hasn’t even called to be beamed back up when a hand clasps firmly around his neck, familiar and too warm in the heat of the deck. A little pressure guides him until he’s looking square into Jim’s eyes.

“You okay, man?” Jim asks.

“I’m good, Jim,” McCoy shrugs him off, immediately missing the touch. “Shouldn’t you be arguing with Scotty or something? Or stopping him from blowing us all up with ‘cannibalized’ warp core parts?”

“Nah, I looked at the plans and it totally would have worked.”

“Seems to me like anything that can power a ship is best left to that job.”

Jim says, fondly, “Thought you'd like that. Anyway, I told him and Spock to crack their heads together a bit. Maybe they can come up with something to speed this up.”

“Then shouldn’t you be doing something else?” McCoy asks before he can stop himself.

Jim’s expression goes from easy to hurt and back again almost quicker than McCoy can register. Jim asks, though his tone is off, “Should I be?”

“Dammit, Jim. Don’t give me that look. I shouldn’t have said that,” McCoy says. “I can't help thinking that I’m not much good to anyone right now,” he lifts his busted arm to illustrate the point, “All I can do is hand out water and lecture these idiots. It’s worse with the hobgoblin reminding me every chance he gets. Rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Yeah,” Jim says, still subdued, “I get it. I do.”

McCoy scoffs, “‘Course you do. You spend more time banged up than anyone else.”

“That’s not true,” Jim answers, feigning insult. “Spock’s definitely laid up at least as much as I am. And...”

“Don’t strain yourself, kid.”

Jim grimaces dramatically, “Well, it’s not like I try. Plus, this isn’t my fault. I thought about giving Scotty the go ahead anyway—”

“Jim,” McCoy warns.

“Hey, I didn’t, okay? I’m learning.”

“Only you could have more run ins with Starfleet than every new culture we find combined.”

“Part of my charm.” Jim winks, obnoxiously. Then he leans forward, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to McCoy’s lips. “Speaking of—Dinner? Your quarters?”

McCoy’s pulse speeds up at the promise in those words, “So we’re doing this tonight?”

Jim smiles, though his confusion is apparent, “Yeah? If you’re interested, Bones.”

He manages to swallow and get out, feeling like he’s lying through his teeth, “You’re bringing the dinner.”

“Pretty sure I can handle that,” Jim says.

McCoy can’t help that his gaze drifts to Jim’s mouth. He nods and says, “You got it.”

“Oh, and Bones,” says Jim, ‘captain’ all over his face and tone even as he reaches out, tugging at the fold of fabric over his elbow and McCoy feels those fingers distinctly even though they aren’t actually touching him. “If there’s anything you’d advise for the crew, you know, medically, I’ll listen. But we need those supplies on board. I’ll stay down here and move every box and crate myself if I have to.”

McCoy’s throat catches inexplicably. “Yeah, Jim, I know you would. But you aren’t looking all that great yourself there, Captain.”

He presses the back of his hand—really the barest touch of his knuckles—to Jim’s flushed cheek.

“I’ll be fine. Always am. A bit of heat isn’t going to take down Jim Kirk.”

The boundless determination and enthusiasm is so  _Jim_  that McCoy can’t help the curl at his lips, threatening a smile. He lets his hand settle into a caress on Jim’s skin, thumb dragging lightly along his jaw.

“Anyway, go enjoy Enterprise’s environmental controls. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Jim means it innocently, McCoy knows it, but it doesn’t help.

 

 

 

McCoy has a whole lot of nothing to do while waiting for Jim.

There’s only the cool, computer-controlled temperature of his quarters and the mission report that he should have finished days ago—as Spock so helpfully pointed out. Eventually, he breaks down and gives it a shot. It’s the first honest sit down McCoy’s had at the computer to wrap up the report that should have been into Starfleet once he’s clear-headed enough to manage.

The first attempt fails miserably once he gets past the bland part of identifying himself and the stardate for the incident.

“Dammit,” he says and erases the dead air where the report should be.

“Recording deleted,” the computer informs him politely.

Then he tries again.

And again.

Then again after that.

Over a few hours, the report slowly degenerates from serious and halting until his last attempt:

“Dear Starfleet, the short story is that I’m an idiot. And not just for signing up for this shit in the first place either. While on yet another godforsaken planet that didn’t want a thing to do with the Federation, I was busy multitasking being  _shot at_  and attending to the medical needs of the landing party—most of which were foolish enough to throw themselves headlong into any bad idea and every last one wounded for their trouble—when I tripped, broke my arm, and had to be carried back to the ship crying like a baby. The end.”

He punches the delete button with more force than strictly necessary.

This time, the computers calm “recording deleted” is followed by:

“Well, that’s one way to write a report.”

“Jesus, Jim,” McCoy says, heart stuttering. He turns from the desk in his chair. “Didn’t hear you let yourself in.”

Jim, maddeningly, stays right where he is. Any other day, he'd be making himself at home, wanted or unwanted. He crosses his arms.

“Don’t tell me that you actually think that’s what happened.”

McCoy looks up at the ceiling—looks away—and shrugs, “Close enough.”

Jim says, voice low, “One, you didn’t trip. Two, it wasn’t so much ‘crying’ as yelling vivid, colorful obscenities.”

McCoy wants to say that he knows, because he was  _there_ , so of course he knows that Jim played the hero again by pushing McCoy out of harm’s way. It was some amalgamation of his own bad luck and lack of attention that made Jim’s push send him to the ground—arm thrown wide—as a heavy vertical-style door came crashing down at the same time. And it was absolutely his own lack of luck and nothing else when the door had locked into place for the next two hours until they could wedge it open far enough to beam him, along with everyone else, back to Enterprise.

“Three,” Jim continues, “You were trapped, Bones, and you still were trying to get everyone the medical attention they needed.”

The silence spins out long and tangled between them.

“You know, Spock wasn’t really serious about the report being high priority. I think he was trying to give you a target for all your...” Jim waves his hands in McCoy’s direction.

“My what, Jim?”

“Vitriol.”

McCoy glowers.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your biting sarcasm most of the time,” Jim says, “but you know it's time to duck and cover when Spock says something.”

McCoy asks roughly, “So Spock’s response to a bad mood is throwing himself in the line of fire like a Vulcan-shield—whining about  _paperwork_  of all things—and  _you_  up and run ‘til it blows over?”

It’s Jim’s turn to shrug, looking uncertain. He’s still rumpled from his day, sweat dried into his clothing and hair. His hands are empty. McCoy realizes Jim probably skipped straight here from the hangar, not stopping to clean himself up or to even grab food as promised. And now, Jim looks lost. His shoulders are slumped and eyes downcast, avoidant.

“You really want to be around the guy who broke your arm?” Jim swallows hard, eyes still carefully averted, “I thought you were going to lose it.”

The noise of the door slamming down on the ground and his arm still echoes in McCoy’s head at odd times. In perfect audio he can hear the two separate sounds—metal on concrete and snapping bone grotesquely distinct from each other.

“Well, I didn’t,” he says, shorter than he intended.

Jim doesn’t shrink back, but he seems to become somehow  _smaller_  in a way no starship captain ever should. Like Jim so rarely does.

But, McCoy thinks—with a strange wave of relief—I’ve got you figured out after all, Jim Kirk.

He gentles his voice before adding, “It wasn’t your fault, Jim. Hell, you carried my ass out of the frying pan and then out of the fire, too.”

The answering kiss is unexpected. The shift between Jim hovering purposefully out of his reach and Jim leaning down to press him back into his chair, mouth firmly pressed over McCoy’s lips is too abrupt.

Three weeks, even counting the one in which Jim has disappeared more often than not, arm McCoy with the knowledge that Jim doesn’t often kiss like this: desperation shaded in with guilt, rounded out with apology, and topped with the slightest, bitterest hint of gratitude. McCoy couldn’t turn it away if he tried, especially knowing that it’s apparently so necessary for Jim.

One sure hand lands above McCoy’s right elbow, keeping his injured arm anchored and out the way so that Jim can lean in further. And Jim does his best to take him apart, tasting of salt-sweat and plying into Bones with teeth and tongue. McCoy hooks his good arm around Jim’s hip and pulls him in so that Jim is half on the chair with him.

This, this is familiar.

When Jim breaks away, it’s to press his forehead against McCoy’s. He pants, breath-to-breath, eyes shut tight.

“Jim,” McCoy starts. Instead, he says, “You forgot the food.”

The remaining tension shatters as easy as that. Jim huffs a laugh against McCoy’s cheek, leaving a kiss after it. The hand McCoy didn’t realize was creeping along his stomach withdraws.

“No,” Jim says, still practically atop McCoy’s lap, “Thought you might want to get out after being cooped up all day.”

McCoy raises an eyebrow, “And you couldn’t even stop for a sonic on the way?”

“So many complaints. I’ll rinse off when we get back.” Jim disentangles himself and leads the way. For a moment, he pauses, standing illuminated in the doorframe.

“You coming, Bones?” Jim asks.

McCoy doesn’t know what to say to not break the tangible mood that’s fallen, the hopeful but unspoken intersection of what he wants and what Jim’s offering. So he catches up until he’s standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Jim. McCoy places his left along the edge of Jim’s shoulder so that the blade of his hand sits in the cradle of Jim's clavicle. The warmth against his hand in the cool room is perfectly comfortable.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

 

 

 

He feels Chapel’s smug expression before he ever sees it when he shows up the next day to sickbay with Jim in tow, raving far too energetically about how Spock and Scotty  _had_  actually managed to figure out a way to speed up the process significantly.

Jim assured him that no warp parts were to be abused in the process.

"Morning, Christine," Jim greets.

“Long time no see, Captain,” she says to Jim, winking McCoy’s way as soon as Jim’s attention is elsewhere.

McCoy wants to scowl, but can’t quite bring himself to. “You’re still not funny, Christine. Let’s get day six over and done with, shall we?”

“Only eight more to go.”

“Yeah,” McCoy agrees. “Could be worse, I suppose.”

 


End file.
